


Bad Moon Rising

by SpiritedYoungLady



Category: Original Work
Genre: Captured, Gen, Whump, field medicine, hurt comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-11-04 12:23:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17898383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpiritedYoungLady/pseuds/SpiritedYoungLady
Summary: Jack, a criminal for hire, falls in with the wrong crowd. Well, he's forcibly dragged into the wrong crowd by a bounty hunter, if we're being honest.------Original, more-or-less connected ficlets written solely for whump.Tropes so far include field medicine, medical care by antagonists, tied to a bed, drugged, manhandled, and pushed out of a moving car. More to come!





	1. Chapter 1

“Armed robbery?” Manslaughter?” The man’s voice was muffled through his mask, but Jack knew he was smiling. When he glanced back to his smartphone, the pistol in his opposite hand didn’t move a millimeter out of line. “Oh, my friend. I am getting so much money for you.”

Jack concentrated on breathing, on feeling his hands against his head and his heart pounding against his ribs. He was playing this one cautious. As tempting as it was, he wasn’t going to add “murder” and “suicide by bounty hunter” to his list of crimes.

“On your knees.” The man said it the way store clerks say “cash or credit” – bored, businesslike.

Jack paused for a long moment, a few heartbeats of defiance. Then he knelt, hands still on head.

Someone behind him forced him to the wet pavement, pushed his hands into manacles. 

“Thank you.” The bounty hunter’s boots stood inches from Jack’s face now. “Go on, take him back. You get to see Hanak’s face, I get the cash. More than fair.”

Jack was fine. He kept telling himself that, words strung together in an unending rosary loop: _you’refineyour’refineyou’refine_. It wasn’t the first time he’d caught, the first time he’d been pushed around, or the first time someone pointed a gun at his head. It was the first time he’d been forced to examine the pavement behind a grimy Chinese joint in Las Vegas, New Mexico, but hey. He never had to come back to this two-faced town.

If he made it out of this, anyway.

Of course, he would make it out of this. He was fine, he reminded himself. 

For a few seconds, he really believed it.

It was only when the bag descended over his head that the panic set in.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This feels like a good place to mention that, while there is a plot, it's very low on my list of priorities at the moment. Just enjoy the whump!

It was hard to breathe.

It was hard to breathe and his head hurt.

It was hard to breathe and his head hurt and he couldn’t feel his arms.

Jack squirmed, trying to find a more comfortable position. This was more difficult than it should have been, and Jack let out a frustrated groan. His hands were restrained behind his back, he discovered. Zip tie. He could take care of that if he could get his hands in front of him, although that, as he realized with a yelp, would also be more difficult than it should have been. An ache both sharp and deep pulsed in his stomach and radiated pain all through his body. He felt a sweaty wave of nausea pass over him accompanied by a panicked need to not vomit, to not do anything to aggravate the wound.

Someone whispered nearby. Jack couldn’t make out the words over the muffled sounds of Creedence Clearwater Revival.

Hope you got your things together, piped the voice from the radio. Hope you are quite prepared to die.

The whispered conversation rose above the volume of the song. “Five minutes,” a man’s voice said, irritated. “Leave him be until they get here.”

Jack shifted enough to let the blood flow back into his arms.

“I’m not gonna touch him,” said a second voice, belonging to an equally irritated woman.

Jack very much wanted to say, “I can hear you, you know,” to surprise them, take back the situation for half a second. But that would be short-term gain, long-term pain, his instinct told him. He needed information, not a confidence boost. So Jack relaxed his body and let his face press into the mattress again.

He felt someone walk around the bed before standing near his face, unmoving.

“He’s still out cold,” said the woman. “Damn, Marten. You shoulda put a towel down or something. He’s bleeding all over the bed.”

“Not my problem,” said Marten. “Reservation’s not under my name, anyway.”

Knuckles rapped on wood, followed by the sound of a withdrawn deadbolt. There were more people talking now, and Jack couldn’t make out the conversation. Then the talking stopped and he sensed people around him, circling the bed.

“How do we do this?” said the woman.

“Move the pillows and hold his shoulders, if we need it,” said a new voice, an older man. “Marten, legs. Thompson, you help me.” The woman cleared the pillows and clambered up by his head. Jack focused on breathing, on remaining still.

“Let’s move him over a bit,” said the older man. “Over to the side of the bed.”

Hands grabbed his shoulders and someone else went for his feet. As soon as he felt hands against his ankles, he kicked, braced himself against the wave of pain, then kicked again.

Marten yelped – a brief triumph. Then, like he’d expected, they were on him. The woman slammed a pillow down on his face, someone pinned his legs to the bed, someone else – the bastard – punched him in the stomach, directly on the wound.

Jack screamed into the pillow. He knew he should go limp, make them think he’d passed out, then lash out again, or at least fight like he meant it, but the pain, the pain was too much.

Right when desperation began to rise, the pillow came off his face. The woman, a thoroughly mundane looking brunette, held his head clamped between her knees. “Idiot,” she said. She flicked a finger against his forehead as if it had just occurred to her that she could. Jack shut his eyes reflexively, and when he opened them she was grinning.

A middle-aged man in a black polo stood at the side of the bed, blue-gloved hands held in a pose of reserved frustration. “I’m sure that hurt,” he said pleasantly. So this was the older man. He looked like he cheated with undergrads before going golfing on weekends, and Jack felt disproportionate loathing towards him.

“I would have asked if you were ready to cooperate, in exchange for saving your life.”

He clearly wanted to monologue, but Jack cut him off with a grunted laugh. “Save my life? You people?”

“Listen,” said Marten. “This isn’t hard. You’re gonna either bleed out or develop a nasty infection if we don’t do something about that wound. We take care of it, you do us a favor.”

“Less than the cost of a hospital visit,” the woman said.

“Right,” Marten continued. “It’s not much, honestly. The least you could do as thanks.”

“You could have asked nicely,” Jack said, eyes closed. The woman was hovering over him like a vulture and, eyes open, he couldn’t decide where to look. “I have a business card. Competitive rates. You know, normal oddjobsman things.”

“We don’t have money,” Marten said. “We do have muscle. The choice seemed pretty clear.”

“Talk business later, please,” said Polo Shirt. “For now –” he began to undo Jack’s shirt buttons, “–let’s save your life.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ft. field surgery, medical care by antagonists, restrained.

The doctor unbuttoned Jack’s blood-soaked oxford, laying his torso bare. Jack kept his eyes closed, focusing on keeping his groans contained and his body still. He would survive this, at least. It was clear that these people were interested in keeping him alive.

“You’ve got to tell your boys to be more careful,” the doctor said. “I hope you’re taking my fee out of their paycheck.”

“Better than that,” said Marten with a grin.

Cool liquid hit Jack’s stomach and he stifled a yelp. Whatever they were using to wash the wound stung like hell. “If you want me on your side so bad, you could have brought an anesthetic,” he groaned.

“Yes,” the doctor said, voice tinged with genuine regret. “Unfortunately, I was in a rush, and Marten was…less than clear about the intended outcome of this particular surgery.”

Something was in the wound, then, and Jack cried out in pained surprise. Thompson was sent for a washcloth, which was unceremoniously stuffed into Jack’s mouth.

Jack didn’t bother spitting it out. He kept his eyes squeezed shut through the rest of the ordeal. There was more of the stinging liquid, more prodding inside.

“Dana, don’t let him pass out,” the doctor said. “You’re lucky, you know,” he said, this time to Jack. “This should have been much worse.”

The slow pull of a needle through the edge of the wound followed. His mouth was dry around the washcloth, his headache again blossoming. He was almost done with the worst, though. His first time getting unanesthetized surgery from an antagonistic doctor in a hotel room was nearing its end. First time for everything – he grunted as the needle poked through another layer of skin – and hopefully the last.

Finally, there was a last pull, then the sound of tape and the wrinkling of bandage wrappers. Dana pulled the washcloth unceremoniously from his mouth. “Still alive in there?”

Jack groaned.

The doctor discarded the bloodied gloves then moved up to Jack’s head. He shone a light in Jack’s eyes, ran fingers around his forehead and eyes, then said, “tell me if this hurts” before running his finger back through Jack’s hair.

Nothing hurt. That was a first for the day.

“Your men say how they knocked him out?”

Marten made a noncommittal noise. “Their job, not mine.”

“Huh. Doesn’t look like his head is injured after all. And you don’t remember?”

“No idea,” Jack muttered. “Head hurts like hell, though.”

“Dehydration and blood loss, probably,” the doctor said. He patted Jack’s shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll feel better tomorrow.”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” Marten said.


	4. Chapter 4

When they were done with them they stuffed the bag back over his head, duct taped his hands together and hustled him outside. The pain had worn him down and filled his head with fog -- or maybe they'd slipped him something. Either way, his brain seemed filled with sludge.

Jack braced himself as they shoved him unceremoniously into the backseat of a car. Despite his best efforts, the tender part of Jack's belly hit a hard edge and he muffled a yelp. "Get down," Marten said, shoving his head down against the seat. Jack went willingly, groggily arranging himself so that the wound ached steadily instead of stabbing with every jolt of the vehicle. Since he couldn't seem to impose order on his thoughts he let them drift, hazy. He was out of it enough that he laughed when they turned the radio to the local NPR station.

"What, you want me to change the channel?"

"Just wasn't expecting that," he mumbled.

Time passed quickly as Jack slipped in and out of consciousness. Eventually, the car slowed. "Up," growled Marten, tucking something into Jack's jacket pocket. "We'll call when we need you. Don't even think about ditching it."

"Bye, cowboy," Dana said. "Hope your tummy feels better soon." Then everything was limbs and grunting as Jack was shoved headfirst out of the still-moving car.

\----

He came to slowly. His head felt like lead and pain engulfed his chest if he breathed too deeply. Jack groaned, tried to let the nausea pass. Broken ribs, he thought. Perfect. Now neither side was his good side.

Since the world was dark and quiet and he felt safer than he had in several days, he allowed himself lay still. The world was dark and quiet. 

He pulled the bag off his head and tried to orient himself. Darkness, woods, the moist ground beneath him -- damn, this wasn't New Mexico. 

Jack pried himself off the ground and dragged himself over to a nearby tree. First things first: the duct tape around his hands. Although they'd used the cheap stuff that doesn't like to rip he had it off in under a minute. He was still a professional, Jack reminded himself.

A car went by, the first one he'd seen. Great. Hitchhiking here was going to be a bitch, apparently.

He stood gingerly, leaned back against the tree. He was shaky and a bit light headed but figured he could probably walk for a bit. The bend in the road off to the right seemed brighter than the left one, so he walked towards it. Hopefully there was a truck stop there or something. Maybe they'd have showers -- oh, what he'd give for a hot shower.

Jack knew he was working against the clock, that if he wasn't careful he'd end up passed out or nursing an infection or staring into the face of whatever carnivores ate the roadkill in this part of the country. At the same time, he knew that slow steps were sustainable and would take him further in the end.

As he plodded onward he checked his pockets. He was surprised to find that his kidnappers had returned his personal belongings, although they'd probably scanned the contents of his wallet into some database or something. Two twenties were missing, replaced with a sticky note that said "gas money" surrounded by hearts and smiley faces. His phone was dead and he sure wasn't going to use the burner they'd given him.

Finally, to Jack's great relief, a gas station appeared around a bend.

"Bathroom?" Jack asked the attendant.

"Back and to the right." She looked from the blood seeping from his shirt then back to his face. "Take your time."

"Thanks," Jack said, quickly adding, "work accident" to explain his state. While he probably should be in a hospital, 911 calls came with cops and questions. He didn't need either.

He drank from the faucet and splashed water on his face. (God, he looked terrible.) He pulled his shirt up, wincing as he eased the fabric away from the dried blood. A laceration the length of his palm ran just to the left of his navel. While the edges had been neatly joined, the manhandling had tugged them apart in the center. The waist of his boxers was stained murky red and dried blood had dried in smears across his abdomen.

He took out a few thousand dollars in cash from the ATM then broke a hundred to buy duct tape, Tylenol, a phone charger, and a protein shake. Back in the bathroom he popped some pills and set to making makeshift butterfly bandages to hold him together while he came up with a plan.

Jack was almost finished cleaning up when a knock sounded on the door. "Hang on," he mumbled.

The voice of the gas station attendant, squeaky and nervous, drifted from the other side. "Listen, is there anything I can do? I don't want a scene but I also don't want you dying in my bathroom. That'd be a crappy night for both of us."

She jumped when Jack opened the door.  
"You got a cell phone? Mine's dead."

She handed over her cell wordlessly. "Three minutes," she said.

Kristi picked up on the third ring.

"Hey," he said. "Listen, I know this is a big ask, but I need a big favor and yours is the only number I remember."

She didn't even have to ask. "Where are you?"


End file.
